


Out of the Ash of A Burning Rose

by cegodfre, Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny, receives a dispatch informing her that Erik has gone mad and is killing people once more at the Opera. Can she stop him if she returns? R. Angst, romance, first-time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Kudos: 12





	Out of the Ash of A Burning Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Out of the Ash of A Burning Rose  
> by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)

Ash on an old man's sleeve

Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.

Dust in the air suspended

Marks the place where a story ended.

\-- T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

"Tell the lady I rode straight through to see her," the courier's hostile voice rang in the lobby of the small hotel. "This message is urgent!"

"I'm sorry," the haughty concierge looked down his long, thin nose and shook his head resolutely. "The Vicomte made it quite clear that they were never to be disturbed by anyone. Monsieur de Chagny is insistent on his privacy. He has lived here for a year, and never have I allowed petty disturbances to inconvenience him, or his wife!"

Angrily the messenger stared at the insolent clerk. "I've ridden all the way from Paris!" he shouted. "In a week, no less!"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur." The man shook his head. "I cannot allow--"

"Lives are at stake, Monsieur! Surely you can appreciate that!" The messenger stamped his dusty boot on the intricately tiled floor. "I must deliver my message to the wife of Raoul de Chagny!"

Christine heard the last phrase of their angry conversation as she entered the lobby, on her way back to her room to retrieve a brooch.

"It's quite all right, Gaston." She swiftly interrupted the escalating argument. "I will see the man."

The concierge favored her with an irritated sniff and disappeared, his dignity injured.

"Madame," the messenger sighed and brushed his perspiring forehead, relieved to complete his mission. "I have an urgent message for you, from a friend of yours in Paris."

"Yes?" Christine inquired cautiously. Of all the friends she had left in Paris, only two could know her whereabouts. Meg... and Erik. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Deliver it, please."

"Mademoiselle Meg Giry has sent me personally to find you," the man announced formally. "She begs you to return to Paris, with all possible speed and secrecy. You are urgently needed in a matter of life and death." He bowed.

Christine stared at him, upset and confused. "Is that all?"

"Also, Madame, Mademoiselle Giry instructed me to advise you most strongly that you must not bring your husband."

Christine's mouth tightened. That settled all doubts, then. This crisis must involve Erik.

"Why not?" She was determined to pry all possible information from the taciturn messenger.

The short, balding man fidgeted nervously with a fluff of his muttonchop whiskers. "Madame, I anticipated your question, and asked it of Mademoiselle Giry. She would not tell me. She said my safety depended upon my ignorance. And so, I did not question her further."

Christine studied the thin, nervous messenger, weighing his distress. Obviously he held a sincere belief in Meg's message. This alone spoke volumes. "But you have made a guess," Christine prompted, her voice reassuring. "Why am I needed?"

The little man glanced behind him, plainly frightened. His voice rose unnecessarily, as though he wanted the very walls to hear what he had to say. "I guess nothing, Madame. I deliver messages as I am asked and do as I am paid, no more and no less, as it pleases God." He gave her a pleading look, hoping she would let the issue rest.

Christine regarded him for a moment, considering. Finally she drew coins from her purse and laid them in his hand. He deserved that much for his diligence in bringing Meg's vague words so far, and it might help to loosen his tongue.

"You are safe here," she reassured him in a soft voice. "Tell me your speculation."

"Thank you, Madame." He bowed, not meeting her eyes, his voice still a little too loud. "There is no more to the message." He left the lobby hurriedly, and Christine heard him spurring his horse away from the hotel.

But not in the direction of Paris.

She sighed, pulling the drawstring to close her purse. A strong fear had weighed heavily on the poor man. It was most likely the fear of Erik, whose violent reputation had spread far beyond the walls of the Opera. Christine turned her troubled face to the windows with concern. In the streets, a clear night was already falling. If the messenger had been pursued by Erik's rage, as he so obviously feared, it was unlikely that he would live to see moonrise now that his mission was fulfilled. But there was nothing in his message that should have made Erik angry enough to kill him: Christine's return to Paris, under almost any circumstances, should surely please the Opera Ghost.

Therefore, the courier's fears must be misplaced. Mustn't they?

Christine mounted the stairway to her room, thinking. Erik had willingly allowed her to go with Raoul, but he could easily have discovered where they were bound when they left Paris. Even so, he had made no efforts to pursue them, at least none that she was aware of. She bit her lip lightly, deciding that Erik had nothing to gain by murdering a messenger bound to ask her to return to Paris. After all, he never killed without reason.

Unwittingly she twisted her purse strings tightly in her tiny hands. What could have happened? In spite of her cool, logical assessment, it was quite possible that Erik's wrath had stirred once again.

Try as she might, she could think of no other cause for Meg to send such a frantic and vague summons. And if her suspicions were correct, it was true that she was the only one who stood a chance of halting his fury without resorting to force.

Christine hastily packed some clothes and necessities into a valise and rushed downstairs, hoping to make it out of the hotel before Raoul returned to notice her absence.

"Gaston," she hailed the sullen concierge, "Tell Monsieur that I have left for Bordeaux. A sudden illness has struck my aging aunt. He should not follow. I shall write soon, and will return as swiftly as possible."

"Should you not wait, Madame, for Monsieur le Vicomte?" Gaston's face was carefully impassive.

"I cannot. My aunt is dying, I must go to her as swiftly as possible," Christine fabricated her story hurriedly. "Even now it may be too late. Have the stable boy saddle my mare, please." Hastily she rushed out to the stable, urging the stable boy to greater speed as he prepared her dainty mare. If Raoul returned now, he would stop her or insist that he must come along. If she made it away, he would be upset by her disappearance, but he might possibly believe her story and remain where he was. It was a risk she had to take.

She mounted the horse primly, sidesaddle, and urged it down the cobbled path into the main street.

After over a week's wearying journey on horseback, Christine rode into Paris, carefully cloaked in secrecy as Meg had suggested. She did not think she had been followed on the road, a belief which soothed her conscience in regard to the hapless messenger. If Erik had followed the man, he would have disposed of him quickly and then pursued her on her journey toward the city.

She had tried to reassure herself that he did not follow, by venturing forth from two roadside inns late at night and singing softly, knowing that nothing was more likely to make him show himself. He had not done so, and she had never felt any sensation of menace or of being watched.

Christine checked into a hotel and immediately afterwards, she proceeded to the Opera House. Even for early afternoon, the place was unusually quiet. No sound of rehearsal resonated within the walls, not even that of the ballet. The unnatural stillness oppressed Christine. Checking over her shoulder guiltily, she hurried to Meg's dressing room.

Meg Giry sat alone in her room, sewing up a rip in one of her costumes. She jumped when she heard the soft knock on her door.

"Who's there?" her hand hovered at the latch.

"Me," Christine whispered.

Meg fumbled the heavy iron bolt open and pulled her friend inside. She gestured for silence, waving aside Christine's attempt to hug her. Hastily she snatched a quill and scribbled an address and a time. She showed it to Christine, and then she lit the scrap of paper in the flame of a gas lamp, holding it gingerly as it flamed, until she was forced to drop it. The scrap burned itself out, darkening a small spot on the intricate wooden parquetry, and she crushed the ashes beneath her foot, dispersing them.

Christine watched her with wide eyes, noting that Meg's face was drawn and pale, with dark circles lying beneath her eyes. Her facial expressions betrayed equal amounts of exhaustion and fear. Meg maintained her silence stubbornly, using gestures to communicate her wish for Christine leave and meet her later.

She slipped away at Meg's silent urging, and arranged to arrive at the address and time Meg had suggested. The establishment turned out to be a busy streetside cafe. Meg waited there for her in street clothes, sitting near the middle of the room at a two-seat table.

Christine joined, noticing that even here Meg did not allow herself to relax.

"What is it?" Instinctively she kept her voice low.

Meg took a sip from the English coffee she had ordered. "It's him," she murmured into her cup. "Did the Vicomte come, too?"

"No." Christine shook her head vehemently.

"Good." Meg glanced about, cautious. "We aren't safe even here. You never know where he'll turn up. I believe he may be following me."

"Meg," Christine murmured, "What's happened?"

"People are dying," Meg murmured, almost too low to hear amidst the babble of voices which surrounded them. "In the audiences, in the cast, in the orchestra. During performances, during the night, sometimes right under the noses of witnesses in the middle of the day. Someone may speak to his companion in one moment, and the next moment they turn and find that companion dead. Strangled, neck broken, or simply bled to death... without a sound."

Christine drew back with horror, shuddering violently. "No," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "He couldn't."

"Yes," Meg nodded once, grimly. "I've seen him." She took a deeper gulp of her coffee. "Which means I may be next."

Christine stared at Meg, stunned. The truth of the girl's words was inescapable, as Meg stared into her cup bleakly.

"You're the only one I know who can stop him," Meg finished her drink with a slight grimace.

Christine covered her friend's hand with her own. "When did it start, Meg?" She feared the answer.

"The evening you left," Meg signalled the waiter to bring them food, "We followed him. We found his home. Messrs. Andre and Firmin were furious, because he escaped us. They made their plans on the lakeshore. They stationed many guards to keep him away. They planned to take everything. Some of it they would store in new vaults they had bought, vaults to which they knew he did not have a key. Some of his things were to be sold. After all was gone, they wanted to seal his home with bars and cement.

"But that was not the worst of it! When they found that his home was not occupied or defended, they made a complete search through it. They found a great deal of money, and stacks of parchment with music written on them. They took the money and the music." Meg swallowed hard. "They made us all carry his music in bundles. They led us to the furnaces."

Christine uttered a sharp cry of distress, her eyes flashing as she guessed what must have happened next.

Meg silenced her with a gesture, as eyes turned to them. "Hush!" she commanded frantically. She kept her silence for several minutes, nibbling at her bread. When she was satisfied that nobody paid them any more attention, she continued.

"I kept what I could," she whispered. "The few bundles I carried, and a number of pages which were dropped on the way. I drifted to the edge of the group. I didn't want them to catch me holding anything back." She put her bread down, her small appetite vanished.

"Messrs. Andre and Firmin were mad with triumph! Together, they and Carlotta flung his music into the furnaces, laughing as they watched it burn. I was tucking what I had saved into my wrap when I looked up, and there he was in the shadows, watching us!"

She could not quite hide a shudder. "The light of the furnace reflected in his eyes, and I thought him mad. I was certain he would kill us all where we stood." She pushed her plate away. "The very next day, the murders began. Carlotta went first, disappearing from her dressing room before a performance. When her body was found, Andre and Firmin decided that they would go on an extended vacation. We haven't heard from them since. If they are wise, they won't return. He'll kill them if they do."

Meg fell silent for a moment before she could bring herself to continue. "I saw him three days ago. He was leaving the corpse of Michele, the dancer who replaced you. The fire has not faded from his eyes." Meg clenched her small fists. "I thought he would kill me then. I fainted. When I woke up, there was only Michele's body on the floor..." she broke down into silent, tearless sobbing.

Christine listened with horror. Meg had saved a few scraps of Erik's music. That was without doubt the only reason he had spared her life. She watched Meg helplessly, a growing dread settling on her like an iron weight. She would have to go find him.

Meg lifted her haunted eyes. She reached into her cloak and drew out a thick bundle of parchment, covered with Erik's graceful musical notation.

"Here," she murmured. "You may need this when you--" she could not continue.

Christine accepted the music, resisting the impulse to leaf through it in order to see what had been saved. "Meg," Christine touched her friend's hand, "I'll do all I can to stop him." She rose, determined to go straight to the Opera.

She let herself into the catacombs via her old room, which sat quiet and abandoned. Perhaps it had been occupied by Michele... she pushed that thought to the back of her mind, trying to remain calm. Miserably, she began to wander through the corridors of the cellar, looking for some sign of Erik. There was none to be found, not so much as a footprint.

At last she let herself rest, sighing and leaning against the cold, damp wall. She had explored all the passages she knew, and she hardly dared to venture into any of the others for fear of losing herself. Indecisively, she examined this junction of several corridors. A dank current of air like the breath from a tomb stirred her hair, making her shiver. Nervously she glanced about the tail of her skirt, fearful of rats.

The floor was empty and innocent, but Christine realized that her nerve was swiftly failing her. Her imagination conjured the idea of malicious eyes fastened on her in the darkness: hordes of rats, or worse... she clutched her candle convulsively, furious with herself for letting this panic intrude into her senses. She of all people should have nothing to fear in these cellars.

Taking a deep breath, she turned left, agitatedly watching her torch flicker in the rising breeze, which carried wisps of fog along with it now, and the scent of dank water and mud. This passage should have returned her to the Opera, but it was clearly arching downwards, toward the lake...

When had she made a wrong turn? Her eyes grew wild as she studied another intersection of three passages. Which way did she turn now, left or right? Should she go straight, or return the way she'd come? She berated herself for her foolishness, wondering how she had suddenly lost her bearings.

Her irrational fear returned in a rush, and her heart rose into her throat. She could hear the pounding thunder of blood in her own veins. Claustrophobia threatened her, and still there was a creeping sensation rising along her spine, lifting the fine hair at the base of her neck. She was not alone...

She tried to calm herself, attempting to sort out the conflicting messages of her intuition and her senses. Common sense told her it must be Erik who watched, but the aura of malevolence which made the fine down prickle on the back of her neck held nothing of her teacher. In the dark presence which stalked her, she could sense nothing of her angel, the man who had loved her. This being was not recognizable, even as the Phantom: the creature who stalked her yearned only to kill.

Uttering a moan of fear, she bolted directionlessly, praying that the passage she chose would lead her up into the safety of the Opera, where she could race out into the boulevard and hail a carriage to take her far from Paris, never to return.

The rustle of her skirts echoed, magnified by the arched passage, meeting the keen ears of her pursuer. Silent, surefooted in the dark, he pursued this foolhardy intruder in his dark domain. She had chosen to run the wrong way, she would never escape him now.

A blaze of triumph rushed in his veins. He glided after her noiselessly, with wolflike grace, his thoughts dominated by the idea of revenge for his loss...

Christine's breath came hard as she flew through the stifling corridors, taking turns at random, desperate to elude the nameless fear that pursued her. She was now completely out of her reckoning, her hopes of finding the way out slowly dying, their loss fueling the desperate panic that lent wings to her feet. He was toying with her now as a cat amuses itself with a mouse that it has caught, letting it flee and hope to escape before the final, fatal pounce.

She rushed around a bend at full speed and found her passage blocked by a silent, unyielding stone wall. Whimpering with terror, she hurled her torch away and beat her palms frantically against the cold stone of the dead-end. A nightmare made reality, the helplessness of a paralyzed dream... she did not dare turn, knowing that the malevolent shade which pursued her was even now rounding the bend, only seconds away--

Christine heard the soft, relentless step behind her, and she collapsed to her knees, weeping hysterically. Unfamiliarly cruel hands wrenched her head back and twisted her long brunette hair into a crude rope, snapping it into a strangling noose about her vulnerable neck.

"Erik!" she cried out to him desperately, with the last of her breath.

Giving her hair a savage jerk, he spun her to the floor. By reflex she threw out her hands to catch herself, and the music fluttered like white doves around her. She lifted her face to him desperately, but she could hardly believe the sight which met her eyes. He was no longer death in the guise of a gentleman. Instead, the clothing he wore was ragged and filthy. His hair straggled wildly and the mask had gone. As Meg had warned, his eyes were lit with the inarguable blaze of madness, reflecting her dying torch, which guttered where she had dropped it.

He approached inexorably, and she struggled to rise. She scrambled to her feet, clutching at the parchment sheets, and felt her back against the unyielding gray stone wall. His strong, soiled hands slipped around her throat and tightened mercilessly. She could not scream.

With the last of her strength, Christine lifted her arms and offered the few sheets of music to him. Her last thought before losing consciousness was that she had failed, and more people would die.

She was too late to see the dawning recognition in his eyes or to witness the horror and remorse in his expression. Nor did she feel the belated gentleness of his arms when he caught her as she sank toward the floor.

Christine awoke lying on cold earth. Her hands rose to her throat. It felt bruised and tender, but she was alive! Some faint vestige of humanity had remained in him, enough that he had recognized her in time to spare her life. Trembling, she dared to open her eyes. The muted light of a single flame illuminated the crumbling masonry walls, letting her know they were no still within the regular cellars of the Opera. Erik knelt nearby with a candle in his hand, carefully examining the music manuscripts she had carried-- music which had saved first Meg's life, and now her own.

The hot, melted wax from his candle dripped onto his hand, causing Christine to wince automatically with sympathetic pain, but he did not seem to notice it as he carefully rearranged the sheets.

She lifted her head, trying to see where they were. A soft sound of pain escaped her throat as the bruised muscles in her neck protested against the motion.

He spun to her, his eyes glinting dangerously. She let her head fall back, unable to tear her gaze from his. His stare was filled with the same mindless fury she had seen earlier, but even as she watched, the anger flowed away, leaving an almost puzzled look in its place. She swallowed, wrestling with her terror. She tried to compose herself and failed as his look of puzzlement followed the anger into oblivion, draining away and leaving behind recognition... and something more, something which made her breath catch in her throat. She began to shiver, her body tensing in understanding of the kindling flame in those piercing eyes.

He rose and moved to her side, still ignoring the candle which dripped hot wax onto his hand. He knelt beside her. She hardly dared to breathe as he reached out, slowly twining the long fingers of his left hand tightly into her curls. Her fear finally shattered the spell of his eyes and she struggled to free herself, a desperate whimper coming from her throat. He had rarely touched her before, certainly never in this manner.

He did not release her, forcing her to look at him. The intensity of his eyes grew as he regarded her, his hand taut in her hair. Deliberately, he let the candle drip onto the stone and set it to stand in the soft wax. He extended the fingers of his free hand and almost touched her cheek. He diverted his motion at the last moment and smoothed a curl back from her forehead.

Erik remembered Christine, the thoughts of her bringing him back from the maddened hell to which he had resigned himself. This woman had kissed him, he remembered with sudden certainty. He knew the warm, sweet caress of her satiny lips. He knew the glorious rush of desire kindled by her timid embrace. He paused, trying to sort through the tangled emotions invoked by this memory, struggling to find himself beyond the burning hatred which had possessed him for so long. Perhaps if he were to kiss her again, he thought, it might help his mind to clear... and also, in an instinct deeper than he possessed words to express, the craving for her drove him more fiercely than any desire he had ever known. He found it impossible to resist her.

"Erik," Christine spoke, desperate to break the heavy silence. Her voice shook and broke. "I brought the music Meg saved." He did not seem to understand her, but his fingers relaxed. His left hand loosened in her hair and slipped around to cradle her head, while his right arm slipped behind her shoulders, lifting her toward him.

She read a new purpose in his eyes, and understood that he would kiss her. A flare of ineffable emotion rose in her, threatening to give rise to unreasoning panic as he hesitantly touched her lips with his own.

The contact gave him courage, and he pulled her against him firmly. She thought fleetingly of struggle, but the idea dissolved in the rush of sensation his caressing hands incited within her. Christine was no longer the shy, untouched child she had been long months ago, half afraid of the unknown world of sensual pleasures. Her marriage to Raoul had carried her from childhood into womanhood, and as a woman she could not deny her attraction to Erik.

And so she fell into his kiss-- belatedly, but without shame. She brought her arms about him, a new bond of desire blossoming between them, momentarily banishing her fears.

For a long moment Christine remained lost in the strength of her long-denied hunger for him. Her body melted sensually against his, expressing her desire instinctively. He responded in kind, his hands beginning to move on her with a daring intimacy he had never shown before. He felt the awakening of a brilliant, crystal- clear emotion untainted by the blood-red darkness of hatred. Wonder dawned in him, and tenderness, renewing his love for Christine, heightening his need of her. He gently slid the tips of his fingers into the neckline of her dress. His strong hand stroked her collarbone, timidly but with increasing confidence, sliding slightly lower.

She realized, too late, the strength of the sensuality she had kindled within him. Unprepared for the immediacy of the response she had invited, involuntarily remembering the cruel pressure of his fingers around her throat, Christine lost her nerve, growing stiff within his arms. Her hands began to beat ineffectively at his powerful chest as she tried in vain to shove him away.

A short moment of conflict ensued, then he cast her from him. She fell back against the floor. A sensation like an explosion surrounded her as her head cracked solidly against a stone. Her vision flashed into shooting sparks and slowly focused again, allowing her to see the wild anguish in his eyes. Her own eyes swam with tears as the pain of her fall finally concentrated itself into a piercing throb at the back of her head.

Confused and devastated by her rejection, Erik gazed bleakly down at Christine. He had thrown her, he realized, seeing the tears gather and overflow the corners of her eyes. He must have hurt her.

A flood of intense, blazing self-hatred rushed through him, inciting him to violent action. He surged to his feet and drove his fist against the wall. Even the shooting pain of that impact did not satisfy his need to punish himself for hurting her.

He was still frightening her. The realization penetrated the savagery of his near-madness, as quiet sobs escaped her and she closed her eyelids tightly against the sight of him. His rage flowed away immediately, leaving him more rational than he had been in months.

Desperately he tried to speak, but words had deserted him. He had not spoken or sung since he watched his music, the only truly beautiful thing he had ever created, disappear into smoke in the Opera's furnaces. Endlessly he had stalked his operatic domain and the surrounding streets, a silent and vindictive murderer, losing track of the time, losing track of sanity, losing track of himself.

He turned his back to her, burdened with guilt and the unbearable physical frustration caused by her rejection. Her first ardent response had been a wondrous moment for him, and he had actually dared to think she might--

No. It was not to be. He clenched his fists and forced himself to regain his self-control, successfully battling back the rising tide of emotions for the first time in a year. He had hurt her in his madness and disappointment, he reminded himself. He had become such a mindless animal that he had almost forgotten the woman he loved.

Memory returned to him in a rush: a thousand clear images of her smile, her angelic voice, her innocent eyes, her simple, guileless betrayal. Pain surged through him, and he understood her hysterical reaction to his loathsome touch. It was unimaginable that he could have forgotten. It was unforgivable that he had come so close to violating her.

He knelt by her again. The sobs which shook her shoulders stabbed a razor-sharp blade of agonizing guilt into his heart. Her eyes were tightly closed, but tears squeezed out and rolled down her cheeks. Gently he lifted her head and felt the tender spot, where a lump had begun to rise. He straightened her rumpled dress, careful to touch only the cloth and not her flesh, now that he understood it was still forbidden to him.

He had no soft bed to put her in. They had taken his home from him, he could only lay her on the stones where he slept himself. He had no warm fire to set her by, only a single candle and the torch which had lighted her way in the darkness as she searched for him. He had no pretty clothes to dress her in, he owned only the rags on his back. He had no voice to sing and comfort her with, it had burned with his music in the fires of Hell. They had taken everything from him. He had wasted his time in madness and vengeance, and now he could not provide for his love.

Erik tore away the tails of his threadbare, tattered shirt and folded them. Gingerly he wrapped the makeshift bandage around her shining curls, where a small trickle of blood stained it. He sat back, indecisive. He would have liked to shield her from the subterranean cold as well as he could, cradling her against his body, but he knew that she would not welcome such an intimate touch from his corpse's hands. He had touched her against her will, he had hurt her, and surely she would prefer the cold stone floor to his arms.

A soft moan escaped his lips, echoing the anguish in his heart. It was the first sound he had uttered since the night she left. He was not aware of it.

Time crept by noiselessly as he knelt at her side, indecisive and grief-stricken. Presently her breathing grew even, and he knew that she either slept or had fainted. He hoped it was the former. Her body shivered visibly, trying to keep warm in the unpleasant underground chill.

His attention focused on a single rat which skittered too near, interested in her skirts for nesting material. With furious speed he lunged at it, his fingers efficiently crushing the life from it. He threw it far from her, and his eyes fastened to the blood on his fingers. Always more blood. He could not rid himself of it. How many had he killed in these blind, trackless days, dominated by his pain and furious lust for vengeance?

Vengeance. Vengeance for what? For the destruction of his home? That hardly mattered. For the destruction of his music? That was a part of it, but far from the whole. His vengeance had been less just than that. He had taken revenge upon the entire Opera because Raoul had taken Christine from him; that was the truth of the matter.

With shame, he remembered Christine's horror at the idea of murder. If she knew the true reason for his actions, her guilt might well smother her. Bitterly he shook his head. He was repulsive to her. She had probably come back only to save the lives of his innocent victims, and she had almost become a victim herself.

He could not delay any longer, he knew. She was cold, she could catch pneumonia. She might die of it.

He rose, thinking to hurry away and steal blankets for her, but he hesitated. More rats would come to investigate her sleeping form. She might awaken and find herself lost, hurt, and alone in the dark, surrounded by the horrid, biting rodents. He might return to find that she had gone forever.

He must keep her with him, no matter what the cost.

He cleaned his hands in the lakewater and returned to her side. Reluctantly he wakened her, touching his fingertips to her arm through the sleeve of her dress. She flinched and went stiff. He picked her up, careful of her injury, and carried her through the darkness. He knew of only one place to take her.

Meg Giry let herself into her room dressing room unhappily. The performance that night had lasted forever, it seemed. Still, no deaths had been discovered... yet. Meg had the sick, guilty feeling that Christine would be the next corpse. Why had she ever asked her friend to return?

A quiet knock came on her door, and she paused at the knob before answering. "Who's there?" A long pause ensued, and then a voice spoke to her.

"Open the door." The low voice was hoarse-- but it was unmistakably the Phantom's voice. She had heard it once during the final minutes of Don Juan Triumphant, and a thousand times since then in her dreams, in her nightmares. His voice. The Opera Ghost had come for her.

She faltered, her legs growing weak. She jerked her hand from the knob as if it had burned her.

"What do you want?" Her small voice trembled. "Please, don't hurt me."

There was no reply. However, his first reply had seemed patient, and his voice was rational, if strained.

Meg set her trembling hand on the bolt. He was Red Death, stalking abroad... if he wanted to kill her, a simple door would not hinder him. Refusing to open it would only infuriate him. Her lips formed a Hail Mary. With numb fingers she slid the bolt back and turned the knob.

She fell back with an inarticulate cry at the sight of Christine lying in his arms, her head wrapped in the bloody bandage. What had he done!

Meg did not realize that she pushed the door to make it swing shut, she was so preoccupied with watching him carry Christine into the room. Efficiently he settled her still, limp body on the hard couch that served Meg as a bed.

Meg watched him pause, staring. On her dresser lay the delicate porcelain mask, his lifelong prison. She remembered, so vividly, the night of his Opera, when she had picked it up for the first time. She had spent a long moment studying it with pity and interest-- only to hurriedly tuck it into her clothes when the others began wildly tearing his things apart, searching for the stolen money. She had kept it, as she had kept his music...

Fingers clumsy with tension, she picked it up and offered it to him at arm's length. He smoothed back his hair and settled it over his face. Released from the sight of his terrible deformity, Meg felt herself relax slightly. Timidly she edged past him and touched Christine. Her friend's breathing was light and shallow and her hands icy cold.

Meg heard Erik stacking wood in her small fireplace. She understood then that he had come to her for help. Much of her tension ebbed swiftly, tempting her to breathe a long sigh of relief. Gingerly she unwrapped his makeshift bandage, wincing at Christine's wound. It must be bathed at once.

Nervously sliding past Erik again, Meg filled a kettle with water and set it on the fire. He withdrew into a corner, where his burning eyes followed her every move. The terrifying madness she had seen in him previously had been replaced by some other fierce emotion, which Meg did not fully comprehend. Still, she sensed that some improvement had occurred. It could only be Christine's doing.

The water heated, and Meg washed Christine's injury carefully, bandaging it again with a clean cloth. The blood had made it look much worse than it was, and Meg's spirits rose as her friend settled into a deep sleep after she finished.

Meg tossed the moist cloth into the fire, where it hissed in the flames. The sound reminded her startlingly of him. He continued to stand in the corner watching her. She had almost forgotten.

What should she do? She wondered nervously. An idea dawned. Well, why not. She poured the rest of the hot water into two china cups, making tea. She added cream and sugar automatically. She put a few hoarded sweets on a plate, feeling slightly silly, very young, and definitely uncomfortable.

Forcing herself to move close to him, she gave him the cup and saucer and offered the sweets, which he refused. "I think she'll be fine," Meg murmured, trying not to be unnerved by his continued silence. She backed away slowly, hoping her actions were sufficiently polite. She had not failed to notice the bruises on Christine's throat, and she felt better outside the range of his swift, powerful arms. His shoulders were broad and strong, and she did not doubt that once caught, his prey did not escape.

The sight of him drinking his tea like any cultured gentleman jarred on Meg's eyes. So strange to have a madman, a murderer, in one's room, drinking calmly from a bone china teacup.

In spite of his tattered clothes, his aloof dignity was so strong that she remembered she still wore her brief ballet skirt, with her legs and shoulders bare. Flushing deep red, she got up hastily and donned a demure dressing gown. How long did he plan to stay? He did not expect to stay the night in here, surely!

On the other hand, Meg realized, she could hardly expect him to go. Given the state of his clothes, it was safe to assume that he had no real home. Clearly he had brought Christine here because there was no other place for him to take her.

Meg watched him uncertainly as he set the saucer down on her dressing table, his long hands startling in their graceful ease. He nodded to her with decorum, then moved pointedly and secured her door against intrusion from the corridor. His eyes met hers, commanding and silent. Meg acknowledge him with a dry gulp and a nod. She was not to leave here and return to her flat, that much was clear.

She tried not to stare as he moved to sit by the bed, his back against the wall. Bravely, she moved near him to her wardrobe and pulled out a blanket for herself. As an afterthought, she took a second. Shyly she offered it to him. He accepted it wordlessly and draped it over himself.

Meg wrapped herself warmly and sat in her armchair. She would hardly have believed it, but she fell asleep in barely five minutes.

Erik did not sleep. Instead, his mind raced. He had found his voice again, briefly, when Meg spoke to him through the closed door. Christine's presence was gradually bringing him back into the better parts of himself, but so far he had responded too slowly for her safety.

It had been a long, dark year, the most terrible he had spent since his days in Persia, in service to the savage whims of the Shah. He pushed away the unwanted comparison and the tormented memories of his solitude, focusing on Christine's profile. She was softly lit by the glow of the fire, and her face held that same lovely expression of childlike peace which had mesmerized him so fully the first night he brought her to his home on the lake. He had remained at her bedside and watched her sleep through that night, his mind filled with love and hope as he dared to dream of another life.

He had hoped for a new existence by her side, one in which he would no longer have to lurk in damp, freezing cellars and caves. He had imagined waking next to her, seeing her face light with love as he reached out to her. He had dreamed of feeling her timid, caressing touch in the night. He had planned to walk beside her in the Bois, eclipsed by her beauty, proud as any man with a lovely wife. Perhaps he would have to wear a hood to avert the public's suspicion... but in their home she would look on him with love and without fear.

He had even dared to think that she might bear him sons and daughters, beautiful talented children. Their children would be musical prodigies, taught from the cradle to sing and compose.

In his initial anticipation for that imaginary future he had almost forgotten the curse of his twisted countenance. But his pleasant fantasies had ended when she left him for Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. And now that she had returned, he had tried to force himself on her, once again earning her distrust and fear.

In his sorrow, his voice was loosed again and he murmured a soft, wordless song, the first he had composed since the night she left him. With music he lamented the impossibility of those dream children he might have created and the life he might have led, had fate been less cruel.

His voice insinuated itself into Christine's sleeping mind, lifting her toward waking. Her eyes fluttered open though she still half slept. Her head ached vaguely in the background of her thoughts, but the enchantment of his voice dominated. Sighing, she shifted beneath the coverlet. She slid her hand out over the edge of the mattress, her fingers extending toward him.

He did not stop his song. This voice of his could almost raise the dead, and it did not surprise him that she reached out to him unconsciously. Unable to help himself, he found that he was lifting his hand to touch her fingertips, ever so slightly.

The touch wakened her more fully, bringing back recent memory. She lay still, not moving her fingers to break the contact. She had acted so shamelessly! She felt her face heat with the strength of her embarrassment. He was not to blame for what had happened. Her enthusiastic response had encouraged him to express his desire. And then, when she denied him-- it was little wonder that he had shoved her away.

She considered the feral expression he had worn when she first confronted him. Given his unbalanced state of mind, perhaps that had been the only way he could break the spell she had laid on him, a spell as strong as any he had ever cast over her.

Christine understood that the sudden violent explosion of his will, expressed by the powerful shove, was all which had kept him from ravishing her. It was not entirely his fault that she'd been hurt.

Her eyes opened and she took in the room and the sight of Meg, sleeping on her chair. Erik had brought her here? Yes, she remembered being carried and she remembered Meg's kind hands caring for her. Of course, he had no place else to take her now.

And while carrying her, she remembered, his eyes had once again held the sad, tender expression she remembered so well. He was still the Erik she had cared about so many months ago, despite his savage actions.

Erik observed the glimmer of her eyes beneath their curving lashes, and knew she was awake. She had not yet pulled her hand away, and he savored the fleeting moments of direct, conscious contact with his beloved. Perhaps she did not despise him, after all... but how could she not, after the way he had received her?

Hope had always been a pedestal from which he knew he must inevitably fall, tumbling once again into the oblivion of madness and savagery from which she had twice helped him emerge. Still, he always clung stubbornly to such hopes as he had. His soul was strong, tempered by his years of pain. A weaker man than he might have despaired and committed suicide long ago. But despite fate's curse, it was not in Erik's nature to give up. Christine, despite her continued reluctance to accept him, had once given him the strongest hope he had ever known. He could not relinquish his dream of earning her love.

His mind wandered back in time, seeking the sweet days he had spent with her. Even in the time before her reunion with Raoul, Christine had rarely responded to him with passion. Before she had seen his face she had become lost in his music, it was true. She had been entranced by his voice, and responded to him with a dreamy sensuality born of her innocence, a definite attraction born of his voice and her imagination. But after the mask had come down, that had been lost.

His music still affected her powerfully, but the light of dawning love in her eyes had extinguished. Dozens of times he had wished to press a fervent kiss on her palm or on her cheek, but when he approached a lowering of her eyes was her only response, holding him back as firmly as a stone wall.

That stone wall had stood firm until the final night of their time together, the night she kissed him. She had begun the kiss as a foolish bribe, thinking to stir him to such heights of emotion that he would forgive her and release her young lover... but as soon as she touched him a flickering ember of passion had stirred in her, an unexpected enjoyment which surprised her as much as it surprised him. For that fleeting moment, there had existed an unspoken acknowledgement of their mutual desire, and a will to accept it and follow where it led, even to its ultimate conclusion.

Yes, Christine Daae had felt that spark, had understood that moment of intense communion, and just before she hurried away with her lover, she had returned to him. She had! Trusting, but no longer so childlike, she had stood before him only for a moment, the flame flickering behind her eyes, burning between them even though she chose to return his wedding ring and go.

A thousand times since then he had wondered what he should have said, what he could have done, to hold her with him. What else could he have said? In that stressful, confused moment, the only words which came to him were "Christine, I love you." There was nothing else he could have said.

It had not been enough to keep her with him, and he had known she was lost to him forever. That is, until she returned this second time. And, despite the circumstances, once again he had felt that willing passion developing behind her kiss.

His eyes burned with sudden pride. Perhaps he was truly mad, but he was certain that Christine consciously wanted him. All she needed was to overcome her fear of him and her childish revulsion at the thought of his face. The evidence to support his mad hope was present even now. She still had not pulled her hand away from his. She might be persuaded to stay with him, to learn to love him, even as she had learned to desire him...

It was possible. He could do it. The plausibility of it burned into him. He studied the plain gold wedding band he had worn ever since she returned it to him.

He would find a way to entice her into showing the warm emotions she guarded so jealously. He would make her face her love for him, and he would find a time when she would come to him. In order to succeed, though, he must find a way to keep her from returning to the Vicomte de Chagny.

He clasped her hand and gently lifted it to his lips. Yes, he had found his voice once more, and he softly whispered the wordless song of his love to her. She was his now. In time, she would come to realize it. His eyes lit with triumph. He knew exactly how to keep her from Raoul...

Christine let her lashes close, feeling his mouth brush her hand, the velvet touch sending a lightning pulse of fire through her. There was a triumphant richness to his melody, transformed from the lamenting minor chromatics she had heard on waking. She felt his power wash over her like a warm sea, overwhelming her in its intensity. A tiny leaf in a vast tide, she would surely sweep away...

He watched her, and her breathing came faster, betraying the rising emotions deep within her. "Soon," he whispered, almost below her hearing. His hand grasped her wrist firmly, and he stood over her, silently commanding her to open her eyes. "Soon," he murmured, locking his gaze with hers. Her wide blue eyes were nearly black in the dim light of the room.

He pressed his fingertips to her cheek and bent close slowly, letting her wonder whether he would kiss her again. He had always been painfully careful about physical contact with her, fearing that she would shrink from him. He had not wanted to drive her away. But now that he knew she desired him...

Though her eyes were apprehensive, her lips were parted softly and her chin lifted ever so slightly, ready to meet his kiss. She was, of course, absolutely oblivious to the fact.

She must be made aware of it.

He let his mouth sink onto hers and he kissed her with the fevered intensity which sprang from his long solitude, distracting her as he deftly slid Raoul's jeweled wedding band from her finger, with a dexterity born of long practice in magic and picking pockets. That dubious vocation had kept him warm and fed in his youth, and it served him admirably now, helping him keep Christine.

He would have liked to prolong the dizzying sensation of her warm, responsive mouth beneath his, which awakened every nerve in his body. However, he was sensitive now to the possibility that she might panic unexpectedly. He forced himself to pull back after only a few seconds, watching her deep eyes blinking with confusion. Holding her gaze with commanding intensity, he held the ring between them, daring her to reach for it. Her eyes grew wide with surprise. She had never felt it leave her finger, a fact not entirely due to his polished skills of legerdemain.

He bowed before her, deftly making the ring disappear before her eyes. Then he was gone, leaving her with a pounding heart. She reached automatically to feel the empty finger... and discovered that it was not empty at all.

The closing of the door startled Meg awake, and she checked on Christine swiftly. She found her friend doubtfully handling a thin gold band on her wedding-ring finger.

"I think I've just been divorced," Christine commented with very shaky humor, displaying her hand, with its plain golden ring. How had he guessed she could not resist him? It was impossible for him to know that after the tragic broken moment they had shared in the cellars. However, it did not matter. He had guessed correctly.

Her fists clenched in the blanket agitatedly. In the past Erik's gentlemanly, oddly shy consideration had always kept her safe from her senses' traitorous response to his presence. However, it appeared that she was safe no longer: having nothing to lose had made him grow bold. There was no limit to what he might try. Was there still a limit to what she would allow him to do?

She twisted the blanket between her small fists. He judged her reactions so well it was almost as if he read her mind. His swift transformation from primitive savagery to brilliant, rational insight frightened her. Was it only her influence which had raised him from murderous hatred to rational, even brilliant, humanity within the space of minutes?

It hardly mattered. He had regained control of himself.

And then... then he had taken her wedding ring. He had replaced it with his own. That elegant gesture was an effective challenge and a carefully considered statement: he no longer respected her marriage to Raoul. He considered her his own once more. After all, she had come back, hadn't she?

She could still hear his voice whispering in her ears. What was it that he had murmured to her, so softly that she almost didn't hear him, but with such absolute certainty? The word he had spoken was 'soon...'

The memory of his caressing whisper sent a warm shiver curling through her. Soon... that had been a promise if she had ever heard one made. She shook her head, her mind in turmoil.

Meg watched her trembling friend with wide eyes, wondering what had transpired between the Phantom and Christine while she slept.

Erik stalked the halls, busy with a new sense of purpose. He must be able to provide for the woman who would be his. He must rouse himself from the uncaring brutality he had sunk into, the reflexive anger of the last year, which had dominated him and betrayed him by making him hurt her. The first step would be to reclaim his home. He knew where stoneworking tools had been left from the original construction of the Opera. The managers' pitiful bars and locks would not last long against a determined attack.

Less than an hour later, Erik stood in his ravaged home, mortar dust still sifting through the air from his forcible entry. He would re-work the door later, ensuring that the bars and cement remained intact so that no curious person would guess he had re- entered his lair.

None of his fine furniture had been left. The pipe organ had been wrenched from the wall and taken away. A few scattered rugs moldered on the damp floor. Some fool had smashed the wired panel which controlled the intricate electrical system he had invented for his comfort. However, the hollow blocks in the stone wall which concealed his wealth, including gems and money, remained intact.

The mob had also been unable to locate the door to Christine's bedchamber, he realized with relief. The other rooms had been demolished, but in the hurry and greed of stealing his music and his possessions, they had failed to discover the full extent of the house.

Some miracle had also prevented them from smashing the intricately carved veined black marble flourishes of walls, shelves, and columns to bits. He had seen that the men of the mob carried sledgehammers, and had expected the destruction to be more complete. Fortunately, it was not so.

His spirits rising, he explored the remainder of the house. They had missed the cunning concealed entrance to his mirrored torture chamber, and by some miracle no idiot had triggered the deadfalls or the electrical switches which would have exploded the barrels and barrels of gunpowder he had stolen from the communard regime during their occupation of the city. He laughed softly, imagining what would have happened if that hidden switch had been pressed.

Beginning the task of cleaning at once, he rolled up the rotting pieces of carpeting, dragged them out, and flung them into the lake. The entire place desperately needed ventilating. He would have to repair the electricity and switch on the electric fan he had made and installed to stir fresh air into his underground house. The vaults where the managers had stored his possessions before they... fled... had never been safe from his entry, and he could retrieve most of his things. His mouth quirked wryly. No- one had yet discovered the clever fate he had devised for Messrs. Andre and Firmin. With any luck at all, Christine would be spared that knowledge. The interim managers filled their positions well enough to suit him.

Returning inside, Erik carefully examined the electrical wiring. It was not a total loss, they had simply smashed the switch panel. Repairs would be relatively easy to accomplish.

He estimated that it would take perhaps two weeks to make his home comfortable again. He would conceal the signs of fresh entry, and he would take the time to ensure that his lair would be better defended against willful intrusion in the future...

Christine spent many hours of the next two weeks remembering her helpless indecision when Erik bent to kiss her, taking Raoul's ring and substituting his own. Invariably, a hot flush of color rushed into her face as the memory resurfaced with undeniable clarity: the instant he touched her, she had responded eagerly to his kiss. A virtuous woman would have turned her face from him. A sane woman would have screamed until help came, appalled at the murderous demon she had attracted. An innocent woman would have stirred his wildly unpredictable sense of honor and kept him at bay with her virtue, as she had done when they were together before. But no longer. She had let her mouth melt under his, and her lips had clung to his as he pulled away.

She was forced to admit it. She had wanted him to kiss her, she'd wanted a resurgence of the ambivalent but powerful desire he stirred in her. She still wanted it. And worse than that, he knew it now. He knew she wanted him. He would never rest, knowing that! Not until she gave in to her desire for him and laid herself willingly before him, his for the taking...

Christine remained hidden in Meg's room, concealed from the outside world. Occasionally she would suddenly discover that she was half in a trance, listening to the walls singing to her. She felt almost as if she had returned to the days before Raoul came into her life, when Erik would come to her daily as her Angel.

It came as no surprise when she opened her eyes one night and found him standing at her bedside. He held a soft velvet cloak for her to wear, and he led her down once more to his home on the lake. She followed him obediently, her pulse rapid, her footsteps beating in time with the memory of his whispered promise. Soon.

Perhaps tonight. Christine felt dizzy with anticipation, leaning a little more heavily than necessary on his supporting arm.

The barred door to his home opened, the new entrance completely concealed beneath the old restraints. Quite what one would expect of a ghost, to be able to come and go at will, even through solid steel and masonry...

His house was much as she had remembered it, filled with familiar furnishings. He had even replaced his pipe organ. Meg had told Christine the exact extent of the destruction of his home. She wondered how he had found time to come and sing to her. He must not have slept at all during the two weeks since her return.

She trailed her fingers over the silky armrest of his black carved chair, where he had seated her as reverently as if she were a princess. He stood before her, his eyes warm, pleased by her presence. Clearly, it had cost him a great deal of effort to restore his home, and Christine raised a faltering smile to him. She felt his ring on her finger acutely in that moment, and her blush was visible in the soft candlelight.

"Welcome home," he spoke softly, his voice even more loving than usual.

She felt at a loss for words, and did not answer him, her face heating guiltily. He was not insensitive to the awkwardness of the moment, and he moved into another part of the house, leaving her to sit and think.

He went about his business calmly, tinkering with the electrical system, which was still temperamental. It would not do to allow her to take a chill. She had come with him willingly, unquestioning... He decided to resume her singing lessons, hoping that would help bridge the strain in their relationship.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by her soft, accusing voice. "Why have you brought me back here, Erik?"

Her tone was hostile, a development which was completely unexpected, coming as it did on the heels of her obvious pleasure at being with him once again. He looked up at her with surprise. "Little Giry needs her rest," he decided to answer, "And you have accommodations of your own here for as long as you care to use them."

Christine's eyes flashed angrily. "Do I?" Her voice was still tainted with irritation. "Do I have my freedom, as well?"

"Most assuredly," Erik felt his own voice growing chilly. "You may walk out this instant, and never return. You know the way." He turned his back on her, twitching an insulated, live wire into place with a delicate shift of his fingertip. He held his breath, anxious, but refusing to let her see.

"I know why you've brought me here," Christine evaded the point of his remark deftly, circling back to her original statement. "You mean to seduce me."

Her sentence fell between the two of them with quiet finality. Erik glanced back at her briefly, careful to make his expression seem bored. He waited a long moment before he spoke. "If I were attempting to seduce you, I would hardly be spending my time on electrical wiring," he remarked acidly. He tapped two wires together lightly in demonstration, the crackling sparks arcing between his fingers, giving his skin and the white mask a chilling, deathly blue color.

Christine made a scoffing noise, unreasonably angered by the fact that his attention remained on the delicate tangle of wires which had been concealed by the panel. --On the wires, instead of her.

"But you won't deny that you want me!" she flared at him, irrationally determined to get his full attention.

"At the moment I must indeed deny that," Erik spoke icily. "This tantrum is not particularly attractive." He fiddled with another wire and was pleased when the ventilating fan began to rotate. In a perverse way, he had begun to enjoy this confrontation. It was a distinct, though unfamiliar, pleasure to cause jealousy rather than to suffer it.

"Give me back my ring," she demanded flatly, sensing that he was comfortable with the argument and wanting to regain the upper hand.

"I will, when you want it." Keeping his entire attention on the panel, he carefully fastened a wire down, grounding it, not letting her have the satisfaction of seeing his distressed reaction to her demand.

"Listen to me!" She stalked to him and reached out as if she would tear the wires from the wall.

"Don't touch them," he instructed her coldly. "You'll burn yourself badly." He paused to re-fasten the panel, finally satisfied with his adjustments. "I'll give your ring back to you when you want it."

"I want it now!" Christine stamped her small foot irritably. He shook his head with carefully feigned indifference. "No, my dear. You don't," he sighed, suddenly wearying of the conversation. "But here," he produced the ring, letting it lie flat on his palm. "Take it, if you will."

Christine regarded him with deep suspicion, not daring to take her ring. Did he plan to catch her wrist when she reached for it? In any case, she refused to humble herself so far as to risk it.

He waited patiently for her to take the ring, then after several moments he closed his palm on it with a shrug and slipped it back into his pocket. "As you wish." His eyes met hers with a quiet glitter. "Why are you suddenly so angry, Christine?" he asked her slyly. "I have done nothing... perhaps that is the true cause of your anger. I have done nothing, and I have disappointed you..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Christine tossed her thick curling mane impatiently..

"I'm afraid I must contradict you." He corrected her, facing her quietly. "You know very well. And I know what you want me to do, Christine." The glittering eyes grew fevered. His hands, tense and powerful with restrained desire, reached out and caressed the air which outlined her body, so closely that only the lack of sensation gave her to know that he did not actually touch her. He stepped close, looking down into her eyes. "You should be careful what you wish."

She tossed her head defiantly, not stepping back, her hands clenching into fists.

Erik stared down at her, watching the incomprehensible play of thoughts behind her eyes. She was deliberately provoking him, he knew that. If he surrendered to his need, if he tried to take her, would she fly into a rage? Would she beat at him, weeping, and accuse him of attempting to rape her? She must want him to give her an excuse to hate him, a reason to leave him. He would not give that excuse to her, he decided, but he would give her something to think about.

He caught her within the circle of his arms, taking care not to touch her flesh. Unknown to him, his hands twined into her hair. Almost impartially he watched her head pulled back, not truly realizing that the pressure of his hands in her hair was responsible for her soft gasp, for her lifted chin, for the moist parting of her lips. He seared her lips with his, ravishing her soft mouth until he lost his breath.

Then he felt her silken hair in his hands, and understood how relentlessly he had compelled her to tilt her head back. He held her motionless in a cruel, forceful grip, she had not lifted her mouth to him at all willingly. She was in pain, her breath coming with soft near-whimpers, her eyes wild and frightened-- he loosed her suddenly, a wave of sickness rising in him. How close he had come to violating this woman he loved! Twice now the madness in him had threatened to claim her. This was not the way he wanted it to be...

Christine staggered as he released her. She fell to her knees on the soft carpeting. Her tears were unleashed in a sudden flood, and she covered her face with her hands, not bothering to rise.

Erik whirled his cloak onto his shoulders, the billowing folds of cloth eclipsing her behind him. He fled the house under the lake, knowing that if he remained an instant longer, he would do something they would both surely regret. They played a tense, dangerous game, with Christine's body and his sanity at stake.

At length he stalked onto the wintry roof of the Opera. He let the cold sleet fall on him, unhindered. He welcomed the biting chill, which lulled the lustful demons that clawed at him from the inside. He tossed his cloak back into the stairwell, and soon his jacket was wet through. He remembered the dazed look in Christine's eyes, the way she had wept at his feet. Had she cried out of pain, or anger, or disappointment when she realized he did not mean to continue? If it were the latter, then let her suffer the pangs of unfulfilled lust, to learn how he had felt for so long! Wearily he leaned against the statue which graced the silent rooftop. The freezing rain ran into his eyes, blurring the view of the Boulevard des Capucines. He stayed until he was thoroughly soaked.

At last he sighed. It would not do to stay out in the freezing night until he caught pneumonia. The cold had done its work, cooling the flames which seared him unbearably.

He returned to the house on the lake eventually, and she emerged from her room at the sound of the door, clothed in what he felt was an unbearably revealing nightgown. She exclaimed with distress at his wet clothing and disappeared into his chamber. She returned swiftly, bearing a silk robe and dry trousers for him. He let her tug off his jacket, cursing silently against the treacherous lusts which stirred in him yet again.

Christine made him change his clothing, averting her eyes with shy embarrassment. He felt oddly weak and dizzy, so he obediently allowed her to steer him to a soft couch, where she made him lie down. She hurried to hang up his wet clothes and pile wood onto the fire. He thought of telling her how to turn up the electric heating, but decided it was more comfortable not to speak. Finishing her work, she sat by him and tucked the woolen blanket more firmly about his shoulders, then timidly lifted his head, sliding over and pillowing him on her lap.

She smelled clean and fresh, and he identified the pleasant scent of a perfume he had bought for her. Exhausted and shivering from a chill, he slept on her lap.

Christine sat quietly with her hand on his single smooth cheek, feeling his temperature rise to fever beneath her palm. He had made himself seriously ill. She knew it was her fault that he had taken sick. After all, it was she who had driven him out into the freezing rain.

Christine had never been required to do any serious nursing, and she could not decide what to do for him. Perhaps it was merely a passing chill.

Her guess was proven wrong. His fever soared alarmingly, and soon his eyes opened, incandescent and vague. His long, elegant body was racked with merciless shudders, and she was forced to get more blankets to cover him. Finally he began to murmur incoherent phrases, clearly not recognizing her. Her eyes filled with tears at many of the words he spoke. What a long, anguished life he had led... she rose and dampened a cloth to wipe his face. Returning, she knelt by him, bathing the perspiration from his cheek.

Eventually his mind wandered deeply into his childhood. She patted his face helplessly with the cool cloth. "Erik," she begged him. "Come back to me, Erik!"

His fever-glowing eyes fastened onto hers, and his hands caught her arms in an agonizing, tight grip.. "Christine, I knew you would return to me," he murmured, and the recognition in his face kindled into ravening desire. With inexorable pressure he drew her nearer to him, but then his eyes clouded, and he lay still, gripping her arms painfully. "Mother?" he finally spoke in a childish voice. "Why won't you kiss me, mother? I've been good, as you asked..."

Weeping openly from pity and pain, Christine bent down to him and pressed her lips to his face again and again. At least in his delirium, she could give him the comfort he had been denied during childhood.

He mercifully relaxed his grip on her arms, his face growing peaceful. "It's very hot, mother. I'm so hot. May I take it off? Just for a moment. Please?" From the tone of his voice, he clearly expected the favor to be refused.

She lifted the cruel mask away hastily, her heart burning with rage against his unnamed mother, who must be responsible for so much of his misery.

"Thank you," he whispered, nestling his face against her waist, hiding the terrible deformity against her. He lay there a long while, his breathing coming with more and more difficulty. At last he mustered the will to force breath through his dried lips. "Mother, am I going to die?"

"No, Erik," she faltered. "You won't die and leave me, will you? I love you. Stay with me." She held him tightly. He was so hot, and his breath came so painfully... she had to cool him off somehow! With frantic fingers she pushed away the blankets and loosened his robe, brushing cool water over him with the dripping cloth.

For a long time she continued to spread the water over his chest and arms, pausing only to change it when his body heated the remnants in the bowl to lukewarm. His condition stabilized, and then she found herself changing the water less frequently... the fever had broken.

With a sob of relief, she shoved the bowl away. Her tears rained onto his chest.

His eyes fluttered open and he saw her. He smiled, very faintly, his thoughts fully rational once more. She did not see it, her head buried in her hands. He watched her cry herself out, then let himself slip back into exhausted sleep as she covered him with a soft blanket and resumed her seat on the couch, with his head on her lap. She did not know how long she had knelt at his side. Her stiff arms and legs let her know it had been a very long time.

Perhaps it would have been a mercy to let him die-- but Christine had spoken the truth. She loved him.

She guarded his health jealously as he recovered. Plainly, he did not remember the hours of his delirium, when she had spoken to him kindly after he imagined she was his mother. Even so, the peace his face had gained when she kissed him remained. She was grateful for it.

Neither of them spoke of his mask, which lay unused on the floor, where she had flung it when she lifted it from his face at his request.

During the days of his convalescence he remained on the couch, his eyes following her wherever she went, their expression unusually calm. At last Christine grew so nervous under his constant scrutiny that she decided to work to distract herself. She would dust the house. She chose to wear a loose linen peasant blouse and a long flowing skirt, an outfit he had provided for her when she stayed with him before.

At one point, preoccupied with her cleaning, she pushed the sleeves up above her elbows and reached high to dust one of the shelves. She gave a sharp cry as she was jerked back without warning. A precious vase toppled and smashed. He had risen from the couch with uncanny speed, and his hand held her arm. He examined her flesh dispassionately, pushing the sleeve further toward her shoulder. He had spied the ugly purple-yellow bruises fading on her skin, the undeniable print of his own hand. He pushed her other sleeve back as well, and found the twin injury there.

His tormented eyes met hers. "What did I do to you?" for once his voice was harsh, pushing its way past the tension in his throat. "I was out of my mind, wasn't I, in the fever!" His eyes were filled with dread, and he searched her exposed skin anxiously for further signs of violence.

"Nothing more than you see," she reassured him, banishing her momentary fright as soon as she realized he was not angry with her. "You didn't know your strength, that was all. You only held my arms."

He turned from her, his emotions a mix of relief and self- loathing. For a moment, he had feared that despite everything, he might have taken her forcibly during his febrile delirium. "Christine, I am sorry. I would not have wanted to hurt you--"

"Get back on that couch," she fussed, not letting him finish. "You don't want a relapse." She hustled him back to the couch and he let her push him down, keeping his dignity by sitting nearly upright. She tucked the blanket around him. It was uncomfortably warm.

"I am quite well now," he assured her. He shouldered the hot woolen blanket away deftly and she bent over him again, diligently trying to tuck it back around him. He shifted subtly, allowing her no success. Her exasperation melted into laughter and she playfully tried to hold the blanket on him, leaning even further over him, precariously balanced with her hands pressing the blanket to his shoulders.

His breath caught in his throat. The loose cloth of her white peasant blouse fell away from her skin right before his eyes. With her head thrown back as she laughed, she was quite unaware of his sudden frozen posture. He was too startled to become aroused, his mind preoccupied solely by curious wonder. Even as a babe, he had never been allowed to nurse at his mother's breast, and he had never seen or dreamed of such a sight before... he barely restrained himself from lifting his hand to touch her skin, to see if such lovely, rounded softness could possibly be real.

With a will not born in his mind, which was far too busy to consider the actions of his body, he jostled her arms, and she lost her balance. She fell onto him awkwardly, still laughing, and with the immediate visual distraction removed, his intellect took the opportunity to assert itself over his disobedient body with a fist of iron. Consciously he refused to let the raging desire fill him.

She still laughed, choosing not to acknowledge the implications of their position, clumsily trying to lift herself off him and at the same time keep him confined beneath the woolen blanket.

He matched her playful humor deliberately, thwarting her halfhearted escape efforts with no difficulty. For a long, delightful span of moments she did not seriously try to free herself, and he used no real strength to hold her with him. At last she rolled off him onto the thick oriental carpeting, wiping her hair from her face, the delighted, childlike laughter still flowing richly from her throat. He promptly flipped the blanket over her head, realizing that he had enjoyed this game as much as she had. He held the corners of the blanket, pulling her back against him, the repressed sensual response building in him dangerously.

Laughing, she protested loudly against the trick, scrabbling out from under the blanket. Her hair was mussed and stood on end. She was disheveled, but gloriously beautiful. He swallowed once, and managed to stare at her with mock seriousness. "Go comb your hair, you look like a rat's nest." He flicked his fingers at her in graceful dismissal.

She wadded the blanket into a ball and threw it at him. He parried it easily, and realized that he too was smiling. Her innocent, joyful eyes registered no awareness of the deformed horror she faced, and the fact warmed him.

"You have to rest quietly," she admonished him, her eyes sparkling with merriment. "Or I'll tie you down." She rose lithely to her feet, smoothed her hair and skirt, and resumed her dusting, beginning the wall of shelves behind the couch, all the while humming an aria.

Only then did his mind allow his body to realize what he had seen. He withdrew into himself, silently witnessing the moment again. How incredibly beautiful she was... the memory of her lying against him disrupted his senses. He lay still, hardly breathing, forcing himself to remain where he was. He would not, he must not, ruin the innocent joy she had taken in the beautiful moment.

Unaware of his swift change in mood, Christine hummed happily, pleased that he seemed to be in such good spirits. She had been so frightened of losing him... his recovery, of course, was responsible for the relief which led her to behave so childishly. She smiled again, as her mind replayed the scene of them scuffling gently on the couch...

Her heart stopped as she pictured the moment before she fell against him, and she raised her hand to the low, loose neckline of her blouse. She had bent far over him, practically pressing against his face... Christine forced herself to remain calm, hoping that she could carry through the act of indifference as well as he had done.

She dropped the dustcloth deliberately, and bent from the waist, experimentally, to retrieve it. The loosely tied blouse fell away from her even further than she had expected. Even so, he had controlled himself as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he had not seen... but Erik missed nothing which passed before his eyes. Ever.

Swiftly she untied and adjusted the drawstrings, pulling them tight. If she could not summon the courage to give herself to him, she should at least be more careful to avoid this kind of incident, which would only cause him anguish. She glanced at him, repentant. Why couldn't she simply abandon herself to him? It had been many days since she thought of Raoul. Yet she hadn't even told him whether she planned to stay...

She glanced at him again as she pulled the knot tight, and this time he was looking at her, watching her re-fasten her blouse. His eyes were deep, unreadable... Guiltily she whipped her hands behind her back, like a child caught at mischief. He rose and walked steadily to stand before her. Softly he reached out and tipped her chin up. His fingers were infinitely gentle, and his face filled with love. She could feel his pulse racing in his fingertips, though, entirely too swift for safety.

Almost as if she were waking from a dream, she noticed the horrible scars which marred him. Their presence almost surprised her, and a slow sorrow pervaded her heart. No, that face did not disgust her or frighten her any longer. She must face the truth. She hardly noticed his deformity anymore, her eyes grown attuned to look past it to his mind, his humor, and his adoration. She saw beyond the terrible face now, to the beauty he defended deep within his soul, beneath the horrors life had forced on him.

Christine took a soft breath, dropping her eyes, a gesture she knew he would interpret as embarrassed modesty. He did not frighten her, not any longer. She frightened herself now, with the strength of her shameful desire for him. She possessed him, she knew, but hers was an idle, sterile ownership. He remained a remote, tortured beauty she indulged in without touching, though her fingers longed to reach out and fondle him, though she wanted nothing more than to hold him to her breast, press her lips to him reverently, and bring him to life with the force of her adoration.

Her repressed longings expressed themselves in so many ways-- their teasing scuffle and her carelessly tied blouse were only two examples. She was forced to acknowledge the rush of guilty, half- shamed excitement she had felt when she realized his deep, unfathomable eyes had caressed her bare breasts, the guilty sense of pleasure she felt in detecting the evidences of the arousal she caused in him. Even now, she caught herself stealing a glance, to confirm the visual evidence of his desire...

How often since her return had she indulged in the tantalizing fantasy of subtly inciting him to such a fever pitch that he would abandon his gentlemanly restraint and throw her to the couch or the floor without warning, and then take her roughly... the power inherent in those images made a delicious shiver run like lightning through her body. She had tempted him. Why hadn't he simply taken her? If only he had done so, instead of running to the roof, to spoil his health...

Her cheeks flushed hot. She was a married woman, no matter how she might wish to forget and remain here with him. Unconscious of the gesture, she fidgeted, her fingers spreading her hair across her breast in a dark, concealing veil.

Erik watched her quiver and blush. What had caused that involuntary shiver which made her lift her shoulders with pride, which had prickled the fine down on her arms? What thoughts brought the heated blood to her face so that she did not dare to meet his gaze? He could have sworn that her imagination had provided her with a sensual image of herself with him-- but then she had spread her hair over herself, a gesture which could only be interpreted as rejection.

He sighed deeply, and returned to the couch, waiting. He would confront her directly, in such a manner that she would be forced to listen to him. She was almost ready to be his... and on his terms.

She returned to her work with an anxious industry, moving swiftly about the house.

Hours later, dusty and warm from her cleaning, Christine let herself into her room and languidly peeled away her sweaty clothing. She would take a bath, and perhaps it would help her to forget her guilt. In any case, it would relax her and she would be clean and free of the dust.

She stepped into her bathroom, carrying a change of clothing and laying it out on the marble topped vanity by the sink. The bathroom was incredibly lavish, and furnished with every luxury she might ever want. He had taken such care in preparing for her to live with him!

She took a small bottle of herbal soap and emptied it into the tub, starting the tap. It made a rich foam of bubbles, and smelled heavenly.

Pausing only to fasten her hair up so that she would not wet it, she sank into the marvelous bath. The marble was never cold, even before the warm water covered it. He had explained long ago how he had arranged to heat it with electricity, but she hadn't bothered to try to understand. She let the heated water cover her, reveling in the scent of the herbal soap which made an ocean of foaming bubbles that lapped up to conceal her. Relaxing, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind, letting tension flow away. She propped her feet on the edge of the bath and lay back, entirely comfortable.

Eventually, the peace and comfort were replaced by a certain apprehension. She could not have explained how she realized she was being watched, for there was no sound or draft of air to alert her. She jerked her eyelids open, staring up to see him standing above her, in the full majesty of his evening dress, the Phantom's favored clothing, complete to the very cloak and hat.

His eyes were amused at her shock, and he leaned easily against the countertop where her clothes lay. She gave an involuntary gasp, sinking deeper and folding her legs below the concealing bubbles. Her eyes flew to the bolt on the door, which she had neglected to slide. How dare he come in here now, even with the door left unlocked-- she would never have thought it-- she sputtered a weak objection, and he ignored her.

He reached behind himself, producing a glass, calmly pouring champagne for her. He set the glass on the edge of the tub. She had never seen him indulge in spirits, and her amazement was complete when he lifted a glass of his own in toast.

"Your health," he murmured, and waited for her to cautiously slip her hand from the water and take her glass.

She lifted the glass to her lips and paused suspiciously. Had he drugged the wine?

With a courteous inclination of his head, he sipped from his own glass, then reached to take hers. He placed the glass he had tasted into her hand. The silly girl... he could easily have slipped any drug into the glass after he drank from it. He could have taken an antidote in advance. Or more likely, if he were as desperate as she imagined, he would have resorted to drugging her long ago. But he was more straightforward than that, particularly today, and he refused to let her suspicion anger him.

Teasing her, he brushed away a handful of the bubbles as he withdrew the glass of champagne. She sank deeper, until her chin touched the water. The rustle of dissipating foam filled her ears. Alarm rose in her. All too soon, her meager covering would simply melt away before his eyes...

She was aware of her body reacting in anticipation to the tantalizing thought, and to cover her reaction she lifted the glass to her lips. "You have me at a disadvantage," she managed to whisper at last. "I hardly think--" her voice trailed away. She knew the comment was meaningless noise, and she didn't know what to add to it.

He swirled the champagne in his glass, his expression indicating that his humor was altering to a more serious mood. He pulled up the chair from her dressing table and seated himself casually, his every gesture indicating studied indifference to the impending exposure of her body.

"Now that I have a captive audience," He took another sip of his drink, "I want to know why you have not accepted your desire for me."

She saw the tremor that belied his casual words as he refilled his glass, the neck of the bottle quivering ever so slightly against the delicate crystal. She opened her mouth guiltily but she still did not know what to say.

"I can understand your reaction to my face." He took a sip of the champagne, making a grimace of momentary distaste. "During most of the time we have spent together, I have kept it covered even while I slept. I feared you might have need of me, and come into my room, and see me without it in the dark, and be frightened." His voice trailed away, and his eyes grew sad. "I still wonder sometimes if it distresses you, even though you said once that it no longer horrified you..."

He paused for a long time then, emptying the glass as the whispering bubble explosions continued in her ears. "If you spoke the truth," he mused, "then I must believe that you continue to be repelled by my nature and my deeds. Again, I understand." He tossed down another glass of the champagne, with an impatient gesture that alarmed her. How much would he drink?

"I would rather kill myself than harm you." He filled her glass this time, and she accepted the drink merely to reduce the amount available to him. "There have been unfortunate... incidents, I admit, but circumstances have made them unavoidable." He set the bottle aside with a decisive thump.

"I see your coverlet fading away," he surveyed her bath, his eyes displaying a brief hint of their former amusement. "I cannot hope to hold you here for very long." He shook his head and was silent again. The pause seemed interminable to her.

"Why is it so unthinkable to come willingly and give yourself to me?" he asked abruptly. "I have treated you as well as I am able. I have respected your bedchamber and your bath as well, until today. I assure you, it was not often easy!" He shook his head again. "Do you think that before I brought you here I was foolish enough to make your bower so secure that you might lock yourself in with the idea of killing yourself, and I would not be able to come in to prevent you? Do you think I could not have entered your room any time I wished? Do you believe I could not have opened the locks, turned the bolts with a wire, conjured my way through the walls, or broken through the doors?"

He did not wait for an answer. "Do you think it would be loathsome to make love with me?" his voice thinned with anger. "Even in darkness, would you greet the touch of my hands with a shudder of disgust?"

"No," Christine whispered miserably, not daring to meet his eyes. "No, Erik."

"No," he agreed, his voice calming once again. "You would not." His heart rang with secret triumph to hear her confirm his hopes, and his eyes flared as he stared down at her. "And so you torment me. You tempt me by leaving your locks unfastened. You tempt me with your body. And yet, you decline to invite me to your bed." His hands shook openly now. "For a lifetime, Christine, I have waited to love a woman. Fifty years I lived before I knew the sensation of a kiss. Through this deprivation, I have endured all the desires of a man--"

He stood abruptly, shoving the chair back under the dressing table. His hand clenched on the back of the chair with almost enough force to splinter it.

"They say there is sin so black that even the devil will shudder and draw back from it," his voice fell, fraught with silky menace. "I have committed many crimes, but I have never forced myself on a woman. To do so would disgust me." He met her eyes coldly. "I have never solicited a prostitute," he spoke flatly. "What woman would sleep with me willingly, for any amount of money? And when men in Persia turned their attentions on the dying-- even the dead-- women they had tortured, I fled them in rage, sickened by the evil of men who are less than animals!"

His eyes burned into her, judging her reaction. "I resigned myself to life without the pleasure of love. I swore to forget the passions of man, buried them in this cold cellar and covered them with music. But they survived, on a foolish hope which should never have been allowed to live... for I never believed I would find a woman with the courage and honesty to desire me... until I discovered you." He poured himself another glass of the champagne and drained it in the same motion. "You want me, Christine," he spoke with certainty. "I pity you." The sympathy in his voice astonished her.

His anger had evaporated as swiftly as it kindled. "I could wait until your pitiful shield melts away," he mused. "I could seduce you now, Christine. I should have done so before you left with Raoul. You would respond gladly to my advances." He gave her a pointed stare.

"I know that I would not have to use force. Do you wonder, then, why I do not simply take you?" He set his glass down on the countertop and stepped to the edge of her tub. "Because that is not how I want you," his voice dropped to a penetrating murmur. "I want you, Christine, to come to me willingly and with all your desire. If I cannot have that, I will die without knowing a woman's love."

Christine swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. The thin layer of soap bubbles barely hid her now, particularly with him so near. Would he wait for them to disappear, exposing her body just as he had carefully, methodically exposed the depths of their souls? Did he intend to stand there until she responded to his eloquent plea? If she did so, he would never know whether or not he had indeed seduced her... and neither would she, for the mere touch of his eyes and the hypnotic embrace of his voice was almost enough to lift her from the water and press her against him, without her conscious decision to make a move.

Erik waited another long, patient moment, then lifted her towel from the vanity with a sigh. He turned his head, closing his eyes resignedly. "Your towel, madame." He held it out to her in both hands. She could trust him, she knew without question.

Timidly she rose and stepped from the bath, feeling very vulnerable. His powerful body, his posture tight with barely leashed passion, stirred her so strongly she almost felt he watched her through his closed lids. She quickly took the towel from him, wrapping it round and round her body.

He listened to the swirling rush of water as she moved, and the soft pat of her bare feet touching the floor. He listened to the fascinating rustle of her wrapping the towel around herself.

Once covered, she glanced at him shyly. His jaw was set and tense, and the evidence of his desire was plain for her to see beneath his clothes. Ashamed that she had seen, she guiltily turned her eyes to the side.

"I trust you are covered," he opened his eyes to gaze at her. Her round, bare shoulders gleamed with water, and tendrils of damp hair clung to her neck. She might have draped the long towel more carefully, and it would have concealed more of her body. It would have decreased his torment, at least slightly...

He reached out steadily with his right hand, to brush a few lingering soap bubbles from her throat. The contact broke some indefinable restraint in him. His hand lunged out and seized the rough, white fabric of her linen towel. He pulled her to him, his other hand whipping up behind her, pressing against her warm, wet skin. She did not have time to gasp before his mouth came down on hers hard, bending her head back, forcing her lips to open. His mouth explored hers deeply, his arms locking her to him with complete mastery. Her hands came up and tightened to fists in the lapels of his finely woven black suit jacket, pulling him down harder against her. Even through the layers of his clothing and her towel, she could feel the heat of him against her, and she pressed herself tightly against him, her senses aflame.

He shoved her away as swiftly as he had drawn her close, his eyes blazing. She took a step forward, her outstretched arms pleading, but he turned his back to her and stalked out. The force of the door slamming shook a glass bottle of perfume to the floor and it burst in a cloud of overwhelming scent.

She dressed as quickly as possible, hurrying out to beg him to forgive her. He sat in his carved black chair, his eyes glittering with malice, and she drew back under the force of his frustration.

"Don't mind me, my dear," the words were curt. "Perhaps you should return to your room. Now." His hands were clenched on his knees, and a vein in his neck stood out angrily. He had almost died, he had presented himself to her in honesty, and still he was in danger of betraying his single remaining vow. He stood and walked to the table, where a bouquet of dried roses nodded, dropping their petals to the satiny wood. His anger cresting, he swept the flowers from the vase and hurled them into the fireplace.

She uttered a cry of dismay, her hand stretched out impotently to stop him. She dearly loved flowers, and those were from her first gala triumph...

"Even roses burn, my dear," he lowered his voice to a hiss. "Roses burn just as I do. Just as you do." He gestured to the fire, the elegant unfurling of his hand tight with menace. "See, the flames flicker and the petals are consumed. Tomorrow they will be cold ash." He turned his back on her, his fists clenching. "There is no ash in Hell, for in Hell we are denied the mercy of being consumed, and yet we burn." He picked up the vase with a caressing hand, then kicked the table away with a lightning fast, furious motion.

Carefully he set the vase on the mantel of the fireplace, and he knelt. His hand darted among the flames, retrieving a rose. The flower head blossomed anew with low crimson flame, and he set the wilting stem into the vase, watching as the fire-flower flickered and died. He held his hands out and the remnants of the blossom fell into them. She watched with horror as he crushed out the remaining tendrils of fire, deliberately, showing no sign of pain. He flung the ash in an arc, staining the delicate carpeting.

"You are more comfortable now, aren't you?" his voice rose with anger. "Now that you have provoked me to behave as the madman I am expected to be, I have given you the excuse you need to shy away from me. Is this the correct interpretation of our libretto, the proper characterization of the villain Erik? He must never be tender and caring, he must never be honest with his love! He must take what he desires, or he must do without!"

He whirled away from her, and the shaking of his shoulders betrayed him. He was sobbing, driven to despair by her indecision. He wiped his hands on a wall-hanging, not caring that the soot stained the valuable tapestry. "Go," he murmured, his voice hoarse, without anger. "Return to your husband. I do not want you here any longer."

She straightened her shoulders. "No," she spoke softly, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry, Erik." Her heart broke at the thought of the pain she had caused him, and she crept soundlessly across the carpet, lifted her hands, placing them delicately on his waist. She relaxed her shoulders and pressed against his back, sensually melting her body against his. She slipped her arms around him, spreading her fingers wide and slowly sliding them across his powerful chest. She felt him exhale, a long trembling breath. She exerted gentle pressure, turning him to her.

She lifted his hands and kissed the palms softly. They were not badly burned, as she had feared, only hot and slightly reddened. The fiery rose had not harmed him. She knew that it would not harm her, either.

"Willingly, and with all my heart," she breathed, "I come to you because I want you." He stared down at her, his face stern, not moving to take her in his arms. "Please," Christine whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "Please, Erik! I love you."

She brought his hand to her lips and gently took his fingertips in her mouth, caressing them sensually one by one, tantalizing him deliberately. His long-held breath escaped in a sobbing sigh.

She felt his hands grow cold, as they had always been, the brief warmth of the rose fading as the urgent tension in his body drew warmth from his fingertips. The poor man, spending a lifetime untouched-- it was little wonder that he was wintry cold, for no person had ever shown him the comfort of warmth. She vowed silently that she would warm this corpse-like chill from him.

His breathing grew ragged and one hand strayed into her silky flowing hair. She kissed his palm again, her hands working at the fastening of his cuff. Mesmerized, he watched the shimmer of light on the ring he had given her.

Tonight, in the odd fashion dictated by fate, she would be his. Not merely a lover, as she might have been if he had seduced her. She would be like a bride, willing and gentle, who desired him and had chosen to belong to him completely. The final barrier which had held her back was broken. He did not ask what had done it. He had released her to go. She had not, and it was enough.

Delicately she released his cufflink and her hands strayed to slip beneath the lapel of his jacket, lifting it away from his shoulders. He felt the jacket fall back to the floor and stood paralyzed with his desire as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. Her hands strayed inside, warm on his skin, and she slipped the shirt from his broad shoulders. The shirtsleeves pinioned his arms behind him, and she took advantage of the moment to stroke his firmly muscled chest with her fingertips, raising her mouth to his.

He could not comprehend the existence of a joy so exquisite. He freed his arms at last from the tangle of cloth and laid his trembling hands on her shoulders, moving them down her back, seeking to free her from the clothing that stood in his way. The fastenings of the dress she wore were foreign to his fingers, and he worked them inexpertly, his impatience rising like a tide. Much longer and he would simply rip the dress from her, or die from the need to feel her breasts pressed against his bare chest.

The last fastening gave way, but she resisted the fall of the dress, its sleeves clinging to her arms and shoulders. Solemnly she lifted her hands and pulled away his mask, letting it fall.

He uttered a low resonant note, holding her close and working the dress off her shoulders. He looked down the length of her back, admiring her pale, flawless skin, feeling her breath quicken next to his ear. Slowly her skin melted against his, the velvet of her dress coarse in comparison with her flesh, and at last he was unable to bear waiting any longer to press her against him. He tore the dress from her body and dropped it to the floor.

She felt the powerful twist of his arms and the sudden draft of cool air against her. It was time.

Carefully, his touch feather-light, he took her wrists and withdrew her hands from him, and with indescribable strength he swung her up into his arms. He carried her swiftly into her chamber, placing her gently onto the bed.

He knelt next to her, almost afraid to touch her, seeing a sudden flicker of frightened emotions growing in her eyes.

Christine stared up at him wide-eyed, the intimacy she had shared with Raoul completely forgotten. As far as she remembered in that moment, she had never been loved, never been touched... her mind had erased the comparatively mild sensual experiences of her past. When he took her, she would be as frightened as a child bride who had never been told the mysteries of love.

"I won't hurt you," he smoothed her trembling flesh with his hands, holding himself back till she calmed. Don't panic, not now! his mind begged her, silently. I couldn't bear it...

"You mustn't be afraid, don't be afraid of me." He drew a deep, shaking breath. "I'll stop, if you wish." He did not know what he would do if she asked him to leave her now. He supposed he would go into the next room and kill himself, very quietly. He could not bear to live if he were forbidden to continue.

She shook her head in the negative, though her hand fluttered at her throat, betraying her anxiety. He lowered himself to the sheets next to her, letting his hands explore her. He would give her the time she needed, and still he could indulge himself in her, he could glory in discovering her hot, soft flesh. Her soft cries of pleasure greeted his gentle exploration.

She trembled like a wild doe as he moved his body over hers and lowered himself until his full weight rested on her. Her eyelids were heavy, her eyes dazed, and her lips were parted. Prolonging the pause, a delicately calculated torment to both of them, he lowered his mouth and explored her body. His lips burned against her throat, her collarbone. The unearthly beauty of his voice, humming, throbbed through her, sending such a wash of ecstasy through her that it brought her to the edges of consciousness. "Erik, my love, Erik!" she moaned over and over, automatically harmonizing her voice with his.

She cradled his head against her, her soft gasps rising to little urgent cries, almost like sobs. He caressed her breast, devouring the soft heat of her body. She felt her own warmth in his hands, and knew that she had fulfilled her vow. He drew his strength from her, drew warmth from her, and his body sparked to life and poured the heat back into her, a furnace of contact which had waited through the long years to ignite in his spirit. She moaned helplessly, her hands on his back growing fierce, demanding more of him.

Erik gathered himself and with a quick, hoarse breath, he buried himself completely in her, losing himself in the instinctive rhythm of lovemaking. After a time she pressed against him, rolling him onto his back, and she took over the active motion, her languid, sensual rhythm burning into him. She stroked his skin with her hair, moving her head and letting the curling silken strands slide over him. Her fingers traced delicate patterns on his flesh, finding unexpectedly sensitive areas, which she explored lightly, making him shiver in spite of himself. She laughed richly at his reaction, intensifying the strength of her rising and falling motion, and picking up the pace gradually.

Leisurely and slow, relaxed and intense, an incredible sensation for which he had no name filled him and released itself into her. He held her waist, pressing her down on him tightly. Her hips were cool and smooth, a delight to his hands.

He gathered her to him gently, resting still for a long time.

Christine nestled against him, sated for now, indulging in the peace and security of his arms. She might well conceive from him this night, a thought which did not distress her. He deserved the right to sire children. She breathed into his ear gently, and he lay very still, absorbing the sensation of her breath, his finely tuned hearing delightfully piqued by the soft rush of air, which made him want her again.

He had never guessed, he had never known, that in this world there might be pleasure so unbearably exquisite, so consuming. How had he survived without knowing this experience?

She stroked his powerful arms, her hands gentle, and he looked into her face. She smiled, then blushed. He felt the need stir in him again. This would be a long night, the longest and most beautiful of his life.

They loved again and again, until he could accomplish no more. Reluctantly he gave up trying. Christine kissed him gently, her loving eyes drowsy. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow again-- so many things she would show him, so many joys for them to discover together! They slept wrapped in each other's arms, their breath rising and falling together, her smooth, creamy cheek pressed to his unmasked face.

End.


End file.
